by Ian Morson
‘Let’s hope that your skills will not be needed in Paris, though, Thomas,’ muttered Falconer to himself as he skipped over the steaming open channel in the middle of the High Street that was the sewer for the town. A mangy cur foraged at the debris that ran down the channel, and even Falconer’s passing by did not deter it from its task. ‘On the other hand, you had better hone your writing skills, if you are to record what Roger tells me.’
Having hurried down Grope Lane, and past the brothels that lined the narrow passage, he turned left into St John Street and was soon outside the narrow frontage of Aristotle’s Hall. Next to it stood the dingier and more ramshackle Colcill Hall. Here, Thomas Symon lodged with a handful of other impecunious masters still seeking a place in the university and a living of their own. Before returning home, Falconer decided to call in at Thomas’s abode and speak to his newly appointed travelling companion. He found him seated at a table in the shabby hall, soaking stale bread in ale to make it more toothsome.
‘You will have no more need of such plain fare, Master Symon. We shall soon be living off the fat of the land. French land.’
The young man beamed happily at Falconer, already knowing of his appointment. But still he exercised a note of caution.
‘Will there be a stipend from the chancellor?’
‘A small one. Perhaps enough to allow a little goose dripping to be spread on your stale bread.’
Symon asked Falconer when they might begin their journey, and whether the bad weather might hamper them. Falconer, looking around the gloomy hall and noting the absence of a fire to take the chill off the air, suggested they had best start soon.
‘Before you freeze to death trying to break the ice on the top of your ale. I had forgotten how an impecunious master begins his tenure at the university.’
Symon nodded gravely.
‘I will not have much in my saddlebags besides a few texts, and pen and parchment. All the clothes I have you see on my back.’ He paused, and with an innocent look asked another question of Falconer. ‘Shall I also pack my knives?’
Falconer thought of the cruelly sharp instruments that the young man used to dissect bodies. He had inherited them from Richard Bonham when the quiet little master had died of typhus after being careless with one of his dissections. He had also inherited the man’s obsession with studying how the human body worked. Falconer nodded briefly.
‘There is, after all, a medical school in Paris. You may learn a lot while we are there.’
Symon did not say that he had suggested he take the knives because murder and the need to examine bodies seemed to follow William Falconer around. He saw no reason why the University of Paris should be any different. Falconer continued developing their plans.
‘We will spend a day or two settling our affairs here, and then begin. Monday will be a good day.’
Symon ruefully thought that his affairs would take less than a day or two to arrange. His absence would be hardly noted. But he agreed to Monday as a start for their journey to Paris. It would give him time to hone his knives.
The Feast Day of St Adrian of Canterbury, the Ninth Day of January 1273
It was the day to begin their journey, and Falconer had arranged for the horses to be readied by the innkeeper Halegod at the Golden Ball Inn. He was relieved to see that the dirty, close-packed snow in the streets of Oxford was beginning to melt. Their journey would be long and arduous enough without having to plough through snowdrifts. But as he hurried back towards Aristotle’s to collect his saddlebags, the skies turned grey, and a new sprinkling of snow began to fall. He made haste to avoid being caught in another blizzard.
Pushing through the door, he was surprised to find a heavily built figure hunched over the fire in the communal hall. Falconer might have been worrying about travelling through snow, but the large man, whose back was now turned to Falconer, had clearly made his way through it easily enough. A scattering of flakes was thawing off the thick fur collar of his cloak, and his boots were caked with melting snow. Peter Mithian and Tom Youlden, two of his clerks who would now be under the tutelage of John Pecham, stood on the other side of the fire, clearly overawed by the visitor. The bulky figure, enveloped in his cloak and fur hat, which also had its share of the latest snowfall stuck to it, turned to face Falconer. From the furry depths a drawn and ageing face peered out. Falconer was surprised.
‘Sir Humphrey Segrim! What brings you here?’
Falconer thought it unusual that Segrim had made this effort to call on him. After all, the man who now stood before him had long believed that Falconer’s relationship with his late wife had been more than a friendly one. And Ann’s refusal to dispel his doubts, claiming her husband’s suspicion was too base to refute, had not improved matters. When Falconer had then been accused of her murder, Segrim must have assumed the worst about their relationship. Even to have a man other than Falconer found guilty of the deed had not cleared his doubts away.
Falconer had not seen Sir Humphrey since the day of Ann’s death. Rumour had it that he had buried himself in his manor, the snowstorms only putting the final icy seal on his self-incarceration. Now he stood in Aristotle’s Hall facing the very man he could never bring himself to speak to during his wife’s life. Falconer observed that his visage, too long hidden indoors, was the colour of uncooked pastry, and just as flaccid and soft. His eyes were dark pools showing no spark of emotion. But his furrowed brow, half hidden by the fur bonnet he wore, betrayed an uncommon level of unease and uncertainty. His lips flapped soundlessly a few times before he could form the words he needed.
‘I need to know more about Ann’s death.’
Falconer waved his arms at the bunch of students who hovered behind his visitor, agog at what might now be said. Reluctantly, they retired into the cubicles at the rear of the hall which formed their sleeping quarters. The fire did not heat these small boxes so well, and they would be cold. But Falconer sensed that the conversation he was to have with Segrim would best be in private. His clerks would have to get their warmth from hiding under the coverings on their truckle beds. He invited Segrim to sit on one of the rickety chairs beside the open hearth, but the old man chose to pace restlessly around the room. Falconer sat anyway, and asked Segrim what more did he want to know about the matter.
‘I know what was said about the man who it is believed murdered my wife, but I cannot put out of my head that damned Templar.’
Falconer sighed. So that was what all this was about. The Templar – Odo de Reppes. Segrim had travelled to the Holy Lands recently with a Templar, who the old man thought had been involved in an intricate plot to murder members of King Henry’s family. Odo de Reppes had indeed shared in the crazy murder a year or so earlier of Henry, son of Richard, King of Germany, and nephew to the old King of England, while he was at prayer in Viterbo. On the infamous day, Sir Humphrey had found himself at the back of the church, packed out with noblemen who were seeking to speak to Henry. So all Segrim got to see was the back of a distant figure, kneeling before the altar. Then all Hell had broken loose.
A group of armed men had stormed up the aisle, swords in hand. They had hacked Henry to pieces. Three of the men were later identified as Simon and Guy de Montfort and Count Rosso, father-in-law to Guy. It was assumed then that the deed was revenge for the death of the de Monforts’ father, Simon de Montfort, at the Battle of Evesham, seven years before. But as the murderers left the church, running out the way they had come, one of them turned to briefly stare at Sir Humphrey. A pair of cold green eyes shone from behind the full-face helm. Segrim had been convinced it was the Templar. Now he embellished his story.
‘On my return journey from the Holy Lands, the Templar pursued me by sea and land for months on end, until I thought I had eluded him at Honfleur.’
The mention of the French port hit a nerve with Falconer. It was there he assumed Saphira Le Veske still resided. She had gone there on business and had not returned. It had been some months now, and Falconer hoped to be a
ble to track her down once he was in France. If Roger Bacon gave him the time to do so. He tried to get his mind back on Segrim’s story, as the old man went on.
‘Then, after crossing the Channel, I next saw him in Berkhamsted the very day young Henry’s father – Richard, King of Germany – died. And the Templar saw me. That is why I went into hiding in Oxford town before daring to return home. And why I still think Ann was murdered by or at the behest of the Templar because he was afraid she had been told of the conspiracy by me.’
Segrim’s face was ashen, and he groaned.
‘It was my fault Ann was killed.’
Falconer stood up and grasped Segrim by his shoulder.
‘No, Sir Humphrey, it was not your fault. If anything, it was mine. It was an act of revenge against me.’
Sir Humphrey’s dark and troubled eyes gazed into Falconer’s. He shook his head.
‘No. I cannot rid myself of the idea of the great conspiracy. I have tried to find Odo de Reppes, but the commander at Temple Cowley is tight-lipped about the man. You know how the Templars close ranks and protect their own. It leaves me with a feeling of deep suspicion.’
‘But what can I do for you, Sir Humphrey?’
‘I have heard that you plan to travel to Paris. Talk to the Grand Master of the order for me. Find out the truth.’
Falconer would have protested that he was unable to carry out this request. He was supposed to be in Paris to learn about the implications for the teaching in Oxford of Bishop Tempier’s Condemnations. And secretly he was to talk to Roger Bacon – something which would be very difficult to arrange in itself. On top of all that, he had a personal desire to find Saphira. Now Segrim was asking him to meet Brother Thomas Bérard, Grand Master of the Order of the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon. He hesitated, but not for long. Segrim’s face showed a deep yearning for the truth, and Falconer could not deny it to him. Besides, he might not know the Grand Master, but he did have a close friendship with Guillaume de Beaujeu, Templar and Preceptor of the Kingdom of Sicily. If Falconer could not get the truth from the Grand Master, then he might from one who was almost as important a man in the order. As long as Guillaume was in Paris also.
‘I will do as you ask, Sir Humphrey. But what I learn may have no bearing on Ann’s death. Nor relieve any sense of guilt you feel.’
Segrim took Falconer’s hand and shook it.
‘That will be for me to decide when you tell me what you have found out. Thank you.’
Falconer watched as the old man stumbled, stoop-shouldered, out into the snow. He had had precious little sympathy for the man when Ann had been alive, knowing how badly he treated her. Now he felt nothing but pity for the lonely figure returning to an empty manor lost in the snow. But he had no more time to ponder on Segrim’s request, for the ever-exuberant Thomas Symon burst through the door of Aristotle’s.
‘Was that Sir Humphrey Segrim I saw? What did he want here?’
Falconer bent down to pick up his saddlebags.
‘Yes, it was Sir Humphrey, and I will tell you what he wanted as we ride for Dover. We had better make a start before the weather becomes too bad. We have at least a week of travel before we reach the coast. Ten days, perhaps, if the snow gets any worse. And then the crossing will depend on the state of the weather. We may have to wait a long time, but you can use it to learn some Dutch, which you will need in Calais. And from there to Paris could take as much as another month.’
Thomas made a quick calculation in his head.
‘Then we may get to Paris by the Feast Day of St Albinus of Brittany. That would be appropriate.’
‘Hmm. The beginning of March. Perhaps, if we are lucky. If not, it may even be the Feast of St Hugh. All Fools’ Day.’
The two travellers laughed, hoisted their bags on their shoulders and began their long pilgrimage.
FOUR
Paris, May 1273
Edward finally reached Paris, where he came to do homage to the French King Philip for the lands he held in Gascony. He stood at the window of his guest apartments in the Royal Palace on the island that sat in the middle of the River Seine. He watched as the waters were split by the end of the Ile de la Cité. It felt like standing in the prow of an enormous ship barging its way downstream to the English Channel. He sighed deeply. The burdens of kingship were beginning to feel heavier on his shoulders the closer he came to England. Which might begin to explain why his progress from the Holy Lands had been so slow. He had spent some carefree and pleasure-filled months in Sicily and Italy, and had taken joy in fostering the myth of Eleanor’s part in his rescue from the Assassin in Acre. It had begun at the banquet laid on by Charles of Anjou in Sicily.
After sampling some of the crane bird meat suggested by his wife, Edward had turned to her and whispered in her delicate ear.
‘Why do we have to sit with this man? He was diverted by a mere storm from continuing the Crusade after Louis’ death. He left me to campaign on my own.’
Eleanor stroked his hand.
‘You should feel sorry for him. Look at his wife.’
She inclined her head to Charles’s rather plump and sour-faced spouse, who was sitting further down the table. Edward laughed.
‘You are right. But, if I had a wife like that, I would not have hurried back from combat so quickly.’
Eleanor joined in his laughter, rousing the curiosity of Charles, who sat the other side of Edward.
‘What amuses you, Edward?’
Edward grinned mischievously.
‘I was reminding Eleanor of her prompt action when the Assassin stabbed me in Acre. She did not hesitate to lay her pretty lips on the wounds and suck the poison from me.’
He looked at the smiling face of his wife, admiring the full red lips to which he referred. She, meanwhile, put on a solemn look. In fact, she had been carried weeping from the room when she saw him covered in blood after the attack, the wounds already beginning to turn black with poison. But Edward was into his stride, and embellished the story, which later was to precede them across Europe.
‘Yes, she sucked it from my many wounds, and spat it on the floor, not caring for her own safety. Would you not like your wife to have done similar?’
Charles looked down the table at his wife’s thin lips, topped with the suspicion of a moustache. He smiled wanly and turned back to his other guests. Edward cheerfully shovelled more crane meat into his mouth.
The next time he heard the story retold had been in Burgundy. The Count of Châlons had challenged him to a tourney while he was still in Italy. As a responsible king and crusader, he should have declined. As a man still in his prime, and mindful of the burden he was facing back in England, he accepted. Making sure he called many barons and earls to be at his side when he reached Châlons, he was ready. It had been just as well. There had been a feast the night before the tourney at which the count asked if it was true what he had heard about the attempt on Edward’s life.
‘And what was that?’ asked Edward with a faint smile on his lips.
‘That your wife struck the assailant down with the tripod stand of a table.’
Edward maintained a straight face at the obvious and extreme exaggeration of the story he himself had begun. The very thought that the slender Eleanor could have lifted the heavy metal tripod off the ground at all was to him ridiculous. But he was happy to allow the myth to grow.
‘Oh, indeed. She may appear a small and weak woman, but childbearing has strengthened her beyond imagination. She lifted the tripod and brained the man.’
The count’s eyes widened, and he looked at Eleanor with fresh admiration. Soon Edward could see that the story was being repeated along the table among the count’s guests. He felt a sudden sharp pain in his ankle, and he turned to look at his wife.
‘My dear, why did you kick me?’
Eleanor made a moue with her lips.
‘Because you are beginning to make me sound like a muscly Amazon from the legends.’
Edward
leaned towards her.
‘That is because you are a legend, my dear. And don’t forget the tales say the Amazons bared their breasts in battle.’
He felt the sharp pain in his ankle again.
The next day the count had singled him out during the fray and had tried to drag him from his horse. The fighting, which was supposed to have been a display of chivalry, became serious. It was only the fact that Edward had his barons by his side in numbers that had saved the day. Edward miraculously escaped with hardly a scratch.
Now, in Paris, he began to wonder if there had been a more sinister motive to the affray. He thought back over the recent attempt on his own life in Acre. And the members of his own family who had died in the last few years, beginning with his eldest son, John. Too many deaths to let things lie. There were matters here to resolve, but he didn’t yet know how to begin.
William Falconer hurried through the Porte St-Victor and made his way through the narrow streets of Paris towards the Franciscan friary near Porte St-Germain. He had news that at last permission had been given for Roger to see him. It was about time. He and Thomas Symon had been in Paris for almost two months now, and Falconer was tired of endless debates with the French masters about Aristotle and Bishop Tempier’s rulings. Just before learning of Roger, his latest encounter had been with Girard d’Angers in the cloister of the Abbey of St Victor that very morning. The tall, etiolated master had bristled at Falconer’s accusation of his succumbing to conservative oppression over his teaching of Aristotle.
‘How dare you! Do you not agree with Bishop Tempier that Aristotle must be wrong to assert that the world is eternal, when we know God created the world? Or that God does not know things other than Himself.’
Falconer had snorted and turned away from the skinny cleric. In truth, he could not deny that it was an insidious pressure that the Church was putting the teachers at Paris under. If any of them were found to have knowingly taught any one of the thirteen propositions that Tempier had banned, the master could suffer automatic excommunication. And the threat of the Inquisition if he persisted. But Falconer’s intellectual rigour was offended by the craven nature of such as Master d’Angers at the university. He came back at the man like a ravenous dog savaging a bone.
